


Better Half

by rudigersmooch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon hurt, Episode Tag, Feelings Confession, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, S01E11 - Super
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudigersmooch/pseuds/rudigersmooch
Summary: John wakes up in a morgue, and even though the work never stops, it might just get easier.(Shippy episode coda for 1x11)





	Better Half

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/gifts).



> This was fun to write, and I hope you enjoy it, dear recip! :D

It said something about John’s life that he wasn’t surprised to wake up lying on a cold table inside a morgue, but it said something more that his first feeling upon recognizing his surroundings—aside from pain—was profound regret. It wasn’t a feeling John was unfamiliar with, but in the past it had been a result of mistakes made and him surviving despite it all; now, the feeling was focused more around the fact that his choices had led to him lying here, in a place where no living man should lie, only because someone had come to his rescue. John didn’t want to die, far from it, but if there was one thing he wanted less, it was someone else dying in his place. Someone who had saved him even before this.

That someone—the someone it had been for months, really, day in and day out—dozed in a metal chair nearby. It didn’t look comfortable even before he considered the florescent lights and Finch’s lingering but mysterious injury, and if John had been able to, he would’ve tried to sit up to get a better view of the undignified sight. As it was, he took comfort in the fact that he could see the familiar shape of Harold’s head topped with its red-brown hair, and that he could hear the occasional very light snore. Harold Finch, snoring: it wasn’t something John was prepared for, and he laughed, just barely, but loudly enough that Finch woke with a start. John regretted that too.

“Mr. Reese!” Harold blinked unseeingly in his direction while he fumbled for the glasses he’d tucked in his shirt pocket. “Are you—how are you feeling?”

“Like I was shot,” John answered, and though the words came out faint, the pain he felt from breathing and speaking was dulled considerably from what he knew it should’ve been—strong pain killers, then, possibly the IV drip he could feel in his arm. “Twice.” If he concentrated, he could still feel the distinct hot shapes where the bullets had been in his stomach and thigh, inflammation where they’d been removed and the holes stitched; he was lucky to be alive, lucky that Harold had come to save him and brought him here. 

He was luckier still when Harold came to stand beside him, his hand raised uncertainly like he was resisting the urge to touch John’s cheek. Concern made his blue eyes brighter, or possibly that was the fluorescents; either way, John smiled up at him with all the strength he could muster.

Harold returned the expression with much less certainty before he let his hand fall to rest very lightly against John’s bare shoulder, just for a second. It left a heat of a different sort, easily distinguished from the pain, but it was gone as quickly as the touch itself.

“I’m glad you’re alive, John,” Harold said quietly. “Dr. Madani wasn’t sure…” He trailed off, and the part of John that would always be an agent sobered and found a new reason to be worried.

“Who?” 

“An ally,” Harold said, and only when his hands came to rest firmly on John’s shoulders, pushing him down, did John realize he’d been trying to sit up. 

This time, Harold’s hands stayed right where they were, his palms soft and his touch gentle. Reassuring. 

“We’re in the coroner’s department, one of the lesser used cold storage rooms. We’ve been here for hours—it was a complicated surgery, but you pulled through, and we’ll be moving you to a hotel shortly. With around the clock care, if I can find some that’s appropriately discreet.”

“Harold,” John said, and then he didn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you’ seemed inadequate; ‘will you be there’ seemed inappropriate. “You shouldn’t have risked it.”

Harold’s brow furrowed in confusion, but it only lasted for a moment.

“Of course I came to rescue you, John.” He smiled in that stern, faint way he had. “You’re worth saving.” 

John wasn’t sure about that, but he also didn’t have it in him to argue. His eyelids felt heavy; he didn’t think he’d be awake for much longer, but he was fine with that, since he was fairly certain that he’d wake up and find Harold there.

“Because we have work to do?”

“Ah, yes. That too.” Harold cleared his throat. “Go to sleep, Mr. Reese.”

John did, and he told himself he imagined it when he felt a touch on his forehead after his eyes were closed, of soft fingertips smoothing his hair aside.

***

It took weeks for John to recover enough for him to be out of bed, and even then he couldn’t go much further than the confines of his hotel room, not even in the wheelchair Harold had brought him. It was galling to find himself weak as a kitten, with his arms trembling as he struggled to push himself across an obstacle no greater than a smooth floor, and it was also all too reminiscent of the the last time he’d been shot. He’d had help getting out of Ordos, and when he’d been at his lowest, he hadn’t been picky about where that help had come from or where it would lead; the circumstances were different now, safer in some ways, but much more dangerous in others. Snow wouldn’t stop looking for him this time, wouldn’t assume that he was dead without finding his body himself. Carter would be punished for the fact he’d gotten away, assuming she didn’t lose her badge and get a hood herself for helping him. If the CIA was smart, they’d find him; they’d taught him most of his tricks, after all, and the only reason they hadn’t found him yet was because Harold was twice as clever and ten times as determined. That, however, also brought its own problems.

Try as he might, John couldn’t remember what all he’d told Harold during the first few days he was on the mend. John knew he wasn’t the type to spill secrets when compromised, but he’d never been compromised in quite this way before. He’d never felt _safe_ while he was weak and he shouldn’t have felt that way now, considering the storm waiting for him, but all Harold had to do was tell John he was, in fact, safe, and John…believed him. Believed his mysterious employer who had more secrets—and more _dangerous_ ones—than an ex-CIA agent.

It was a terrifying thought, and when combined with the fact that he’d lost hours of time over the past weeks, John wasn’t sure if he’d admitted anything of that sort. It put him on edge, so much so that when Harold came to move him to a different hotel yet again, John dug his heels in. Metaphorically.

“This is dangerous, Finch,” John said. “You shouldn’t be here. I can manage the move myself.”

Harold only looked at him with exasperation before he continued removing the last traces of them both. Someone much more practiced and very expensive would come in afterward to wipe down the surfaces and scrap for DNA, the same way they had at the previous three hotels, but Harold had his own methods of ensuring John was looked after and every electronic device had to be stored in its proper place.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve said that, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, “but you seem to have forgotten what I say in response.”

“And what is that, Finch?”

“That it’s no trouble,” Harold said, the response automatic and too light by half. “And that you have time. We don’t have any new numbers yet.”

“I really think it would’ve been easier to just replace me, Finch,” John said, and even as he said it, he wasn’t sure how much he meant that. He wasn’t sure he’d trust anyone else to look after Harold in his place, not even Carter, but that didn’t mean Harold should be risking his life for _him_.

Harold, though, stiffened his spine at the comment, and then tellingly began re-folding something that he’d already folded once. The silence was louder than the sounds of traffic on the busy street outside his window.

“I would’ve thought that you’d realized by now that I don’t consider people disposable, Mr. Reese,” Harold said carefully once he finally decided to speak, “especially not those I think of as—well. Friends.” He paused. “I suppose you can’t be blamed for believing that, however, given my secretive nature.”

“I was joking, Harold.” John tried to smile at Harold’s back. “Mark and Kara didn’t find me funny either.”

The mention of John’s two ex-partners seemed to snap Harold out of his musings, at least enough to allow him to resume his brisk and impenetrable mask.

“Sense of humor aside, they obviously didn’t value you highly enough, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Sometimes I think I was always meant to end up here. To help you. I don’t mind.” John weighed his options, and then used some of his limited strength to roll his chair a little closer. “And if anyone is the better half, Finch, it’s obviously you.”

From this angle and distance, John could just barely see the side of Harold’s face, and he might have been imagining it when he saw the corner of his lips tilt up in a private smile.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree, Mr. Reese.”

***

John had made several bad decisions over the past month, but he didn’t think any of them quite compared to engaging in light hand-to-hand and throwing someone through a window while he was still recovering from being shot. He and Harold had barely made it a block away from Trask’s building before the pulling in his stomach and the ache in his leg couldn’t be ignored any longer, and he found himself leaning against the nearest wall in a struggle to stay standing. If it had been anyone but Finch beside him, John would’ve walked until he collapsed; he’d done it before, after all.

Harold didn’t say anything, but he crowded close enough that John could talk to him without speaking too loudly in the chilly air.

“I’m fine, Finch,” John said, but even he could hear the wheeze behind the words, and his grip on his crutch trembled.

Harold’s hand was a welcome weight against his back, but its gentle up-and-down motion was a surprise. Maybe it was for appearances; though there weren’t many people on this side street at this hour, it made more sense for Harold to look like a friend showing concern for another friend instead of keeping his distance like he probably preferred.

“You’re not fine,” Harold said firmly, and John was reminded, suddenly, of Harold supporting his weight when he could barely stand just weeks ago; it was hard to remember that he was much stronger than he looked. “Your stitches were only removed two days ago. Did the fight with Morris reopen something? Do you need to see Dr. Madani?”

“When did you start fussing so much?” John asked, but the joking tone would’ve been more convincing if he hadn’t been practically leaning into Harold’s touch. The steady pressure was soothing in a way few things were, and Harold didn’t seem to mind continuing to provide it, even though John had long since caught his breath.

They stayed like that for several minutes, and when Harold finally stopped, he kept his hand high on John’s back.

“These past few weeks have made something very clear to me, John,” Harold said, “and that is that I find you being harmed intolerable.”

John’s heart started to beat faster, and it was painful in his chest for reasons that had nothing to do with taking a knee to a healing wound.

“It’s going to keep happening, Finch.” It was inevitable.

“I know.” Harold swallowed, then bravely kept going. “John. Do you really not know what I’m trying to say?” The hand on John’s back clenched, its tension evident even through a layer of thick wool. “I care about you a great deal.” He laughed quietly, almost to himself. “And you’re worth so much more than you think.”

“I know.” To Harold, at least, he was, impossible as that seemed. Harold knew him better than anyone had in years; he should’ve taken one look at the skeletons in John’s closet and ran, but he hadn’t. 

It made it easier for John to trust his instincts and take a leap, even though Harold still had so many secrets. John didn’t know if he’d ever know them all, but for now, he had the time to find out.

“The feeling’s mutual, Harold,” John said, and he was smiling when he turned and leaned forward to plant a kiss on Harold’s lips right there on that darkened street. His timing could’ve been better, the location more carefully chosen; it was hardly romantic, the two of them pressed against a brick building and surrounded only by dingy street lamps and the faint sounds of the city at night.

All the same, they stayed there for long enough for John to lose his breath again for a much more pleasant reason, and for Harold’s cheeks to go pink from the chill.

When they started forward again, it was at an easy pace, and side-by-side.


End file.
